Gone Cold (29 page)

“Find anything noteworthy during your search, John?”

He hesitated then said softly, “I ultimately found a secret room beneath the pub.”

“And in the room?”

“In the room I discovered large amounts of illicit drugs, including ecstasy, cocaine, and heroin.”

“Anything else?”

“The room is fully soundproofed and furnished with a worn love seat, a plastic table and chairs, and a mattress and box spring. Buried deep inside the mattress, I discovered a number of photographs, as well as several pieces of construction paper of various sizes and colors. All of which contain messages in what appears to be a child’s handwriting.”

I swallowed hard. “What do these messages say?”

Rendell hesitated again. “Are you sure, Simon?”

“I’m sure, John.”

“They’re messages asking for help. The author says she was stolen by a man she calls ‘Uncle Terry.’ She’s signed each message, ‘Hailey Fisk.’”

“And the photos?”

“They’re of Hailey, Simon. They appear to have been taken over the course of about two or three years—all in the hidden room below the bar.”

Trembling inside, I managed to hold my gaze on Terry. During the course of my conversation with Rendell, Terry’s skin had become progressively waxen. Now he resembled a porcelain statue about to splinter into a million little pieces.

I held out the phone to him. Said, “Care to cross-examine the witness, Mr. Davies?”

Chapter 60

Jack said, “Well, it appears we have quite a predicament here, don’t we, Terry?”

I’d just clicked off a much briefer call with Kati Sheffield, who had proudly asserted her credentials as a former computer analyst for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, then described her search for records relating to a London resident named Shauna Adair—and her ultimate discovery of Shauna’s death certificate.

“Kati,” I’d asked, “did you have a chance to compare the recent photos I sent you? The photos of the girl we found in the locked basement of Knight’s End?”

“I did, Simon,” she said anxiously. “It’s her. With one-hundred percent certainty. The girl you found at Knight’s End is your daughter. Shauna Adair
is
Hailey Fisk.”

I offered the photos into evidence, so to speak. Jack studied them for less than a minute before motioning to one of his boys.

“Return Mr. Fisk’s firearm to him,” he said.

“For
fuck’s sake, Jack!
” Terry bellowed.

“Shut up, Terry. Another word from you, and I’ll offer Mr. Fisk my
personal
assistance. And believe me. You do
not
want that.”

I took back the HK but tucked it into my jacket. Said, “Thanks, but I won’t be needing this, Jack.”

Another of his boys handed me my phone.

Jack said, “I don’t have gift wrap, Simon. But I do have zip ties if you’d like. And I could have a couple of my boys help you carry your package to the car. I believe you said you’re parked by the river, right? That could be of some convenience, I’d imagine.”

“I’ll pass, Jack. But I do have one favor to ask.”

“All right, then.”

“I’d like to borrow these premises.”

Jack seemed to think on it. “I’ve only let them, Simon. So they are my responsibility.”

“I understand. Nothing will be damaged.”

“And you’ll clean up after yourself?”

“You have my word.”

“Then by all means, have at it, Simon.” He nodded to me, said, “I too have a little girl. Two of them, in fact.”

I said nothing.

He added, “I’d just ask that you wait ten minutes before you begin so that the boys and I are well off.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

He bowed his head. “A good night to you, Simon.”

Then he and his crew took their leave without looking back.

*   *   *

“Running’s only going to make it worse,” I warned Terry after he took a half step backward.

We were alone in the large warehouse. There were plenty of exits but Terrance Davies had no hope of making it to any of them. And he damn well knew it.

“Listen, Simon. Before you do anything, let’s have a chat, you and me.”

“I don’t think we have anything to talk about, Terry.”

His voice rose in pitch and took on the distinct tone of desperation. “Don’t you at least want to know
why
?”

“I already know why.”

He spread out his arms, palms wide. “I took great care of her, Simon. You have to believe me. I loved her like I loved me own daughter.”

“Equivocate all you want. Doesn’t change what you’ve done.”

He puffed up and tried indignation on for size. “If I’m guilty of anything, Simon,” he shouted, pointing a finger at me, “it’s punishing you for the iniquities of your father.”

“I’d already paid for the iniquities of my father,” I said calmly. “You knew that when you took her from me.”

His shoulders slumped. “It was twelve bloody years ago, Simon. I was a different man. I was lonely, wasn’t I? You knew that. You remember.”

I still hadn’t moved from my spot. Roughly ten feet stood between us.

He dropped to his knees in front of me. “I beg of you. I’m an old man, aren’t I?”

I thought of Gerry Gilchrist and his story about Arthur Thompson and the Ponderosa. Then about Edie and her son, shot dead at a Baltimore Burger King over a couple hundred bucks.

“I regretted it the moment I got her back to the pub, Simon. I regretted it right then. But I saw no turning back. I’d passed the bloody Rubicon, you see?”

I thought of the first time I’d killed a man. Ten years ago. In Saint Petersburg, Russia. The incident that put me on the Kremlin’s radar. The killing that brought me here to London—for the first time in twenty-five years—in order to lie low.

The child I’d been tracking was named Natalya. She was eleven years old. The child of a State Department employee and an SVR operative who’d been posing as a Russian diplomat at Washington Station on Wisconsin Avenue in the District.

The morning I’d received the call, I conferred with the mother’s lawyers and obtained confirmation that she’d been granted full custody by a D.C. family court. By noon I was on a plane to Moscow.

When I arrived in Moscow, I took a bullet train to Saint Petersburg. At an operating speed of roughly 155 miles per hour, the trip took just under four hours.

From the station I took a taxi to Petrogradskaya, a largely residential area on the banks of the Neva River. In a sushi restaurant named Yakitoriya, I met with a CIA case officer who was in Russia as a banker under nonofficial cover, meaning he wasn’t under the protection of the American embassy. If his spying activities were discovered, the United States would deny any ties and he’d be subject to Russia’s draconian laws relating to espionage and treason, after, of course, he was tortured. The banker provided me the address of the former diplomat/spy, along with a report on his daily movements and his daughter Natalya’s routine.

Late that night I disabled the alarm system and entered the Russian’s two-story home. The banker had given me the blueprints. In and out, I thought; the job would be a piece of cake. Only the intelligence I received didn’t take into account that the unattached former spy might get lonely and invite a prostitute into his home.

The prostitute was in the kitchen, slicing an apple, when she caught me with the child, who’d been cooperative once I told her I was returning her to her mother in the States.

The prostitute screamed.

I removed my Glock and commanded her to be silent, but by then it was too late. The Russian spy was already barreling out of his room with a shotgun on his shoulder, and it was kill or be killed, so I shoved Natalya behind me, raised my Glock, aimed it at his center mass, and fired twice.

Natalya watched her father tumble down a full flight of stairs before rolling to a stop, drenched in blood. Then she watched him die in front of her.

That night I’d passed a Rubicon of my own.

There was no turning back.

“Your daughter’s
alive,
” Terry cried from his spot on the floor. “Taking
my
life tonight won’t amount to no justice. That’s not ‘an eye for an eye,’ is it?”

I said nothing.

Once he finally realized that my heart held nothing but rage, he closed his eyes and sank deeper into the cold concrete floor.

Feebly, he said, “Can I have one last fag, Simon? Can you at least grant me that? Me hands are trembling. It’s all I ask. Please.”

When he opened his eyes, I bowed my head and he fished a crumpled package of cigarettes out of his suit jacket. The first three cigarettes he pulled out of the package with his quivering fingers were broken. The fourth was damaged but likely to hold. He placed it between his lips.

Feeling around in his suit, he said, “They took me bloody matches.” He looked up at me, the ruined unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. “I don’t suppose you’d happen to have a light?”

I pulled Kinny Gilchrist’s platinum Zippo from my pocket and tossed it to him.

After several tries, the flint wheel finally sparked.

He lit up.

Inhaled.

Exhaled.

Tossed the lighter back to me.

“When Tasha died,” he said with a shaky voice, “it was like losing me Lona all over again. She killed herself too Simon. Hung herself with her bedsheets while still behind bars. On account of what your father done.”

I took a single step forward. “I heard the story, Terry. Twice. I don’t need to hear it again.”

He blew a column of smoke up at the ceiling. “You need to hear the
truth,
don’t you? You bloody well need to hear
that
.”

“The truth is right in front of me,” I said. “On its knees.”

Shaking his head, he cried, “It’s not the
whole
truth though, is it? You blame me for taking Hailey, all right. But if you blame me for Tasha’s suicide, you’re burying your bloody head in the sand, aren’t you, Simon?”

I said nothing.

Terry said, “It was your behavior what killed your wife. At least be man enough to accept your share of the fault.”

“My wife died of a broken heart,” I said. “You and you alone had the hatchet in your hand.”

“Bullshit, Simon.
Bullshit
. I’ve read the stories about you. I’ve read the interviews. I’ve read Will Collins’s true crime book. ‘Me beloved Tasha this, me beloved Tasha that.’ Only that’s not how it was in those final days, was it? You
blamed
her for what happened, didn’t you? Your blame is what done her in, isn’t it?”

“None of it would have happened were it not for what you did.”

“But Tasha was blameless,” he said. “You can admit that, can’t you? You bloody killed her, Simon. You bloody killed your own wife. With resentment, you did. And you know what? It wasn’t her fault in the least. I had it all planned out, didn’t I? For me, it was just another job of work. Just another score. I’d planned on taking Hailey from her school. Would have been cake too. Had it all planned, I tell you. But no, you put it all on Tasha, poor Tasha, she wasn’t looking at what she was doing. At least admit, Simon, you’re as responsible for her death as I am. Every bit. You killed that beautiful young bird, sure as I did.”

I stepped forward so that I was hovering over him.

He said, “I was going to off you, Simon. I was going to top you in order to hurt your father. Back then in ’92. Then I learned you had a falling out with him, and I changed me tune. Instead of topping you, I recruited you. I became like a bloody father to you. Like a grandfather to your daughter. Hailey, even two years after I took her, still referred to me as Uncle Terry. After that, she called me
Dad
. Still does, doesn’t she? Kill me, Simon, all right, but know you’re killing someone your daughter
loves
. Again.”

“Almost done with that cigarette?” I said.

“I became a father to you. Even after I discovered you’d become just like Alden. Married a woman not for love, but for her money.”

“The hell I did.”

“You took that big house though, didn’t you? You let Tasha’s parents pay for that posh private school for Hailey.”

“You don’t know anything about me, Terry.”

“Oh, but I do, mate. I do. I do, and it’s bloody killing you. That’s why you’re gonna top me, innit? Because you can’t live with yourself. With the things that you’ve done.”

I said nothing.

“Look at you, Simon. Indignant just like your old man. Know why I took her, mate? Because I fell in love with that child. And no, don’t you dare fucking look at me like that. Not in a sexual way. I never laid a bloody hand on me Shauna except in love. Never touched her but in any way that a father should touch a daughter.”

I wanted to shut him up but a dam had suddenly collapsed and countless questions came flooding into my mind.

Did it matter that he hadn’t sexually abused her? Of course, it mattered. But did it matter enough to spare his life?

Did it matter that he’d lost Zoey all those years ago and blamed that loss on my father, who’d turned him in, possibly out of nothing more than sexual jealousy?

Did it matter that he believed I played a role in my own wife’s suicide?

Did it matter that he may have been right?

All of a sudden I felt dizzy, confused, a white blaze framing my vision.

My mind went to the call I’d made on my way to Wapping.

When I’d first gotten into the Mercedes, I’d plucked my wallet from my back pocket and dialed the number I’d been handed when we’d first landed in Ireland.

Edie had answered.

“You may not remember me,” I’d said. “My name’s Simon. We met on the Aer Lingus flight from D.C. to Dublin.”

“Of course I remember you,” she said in her slight British accent. “I may be on in years, but I haven’t lost the plot, have I? At least not yet anyway.”

I smiled. It felt good to hear her voice.

“What can I do for you, love?”

“You can convince me,” I said.

There was silence on her end of the line as she no doubt reflected on our conversation of five nights ago and filled in all the pages I’d purposefully left blank.